


We Found Love (In A Hopeless Place)

by Bold_Cherry



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Ryden - Fandom
Genre: AU, High School AU, M/M, dance, dance au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:36:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_Cherry/pseuds/Bold_Cherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summerlin Centre of Modern Dance, or SCMD, teaches some of the best young dancers in the state. It has also been Ryan's second home for about as long as he remembers. While his own home and family crumbles, and he finds himself unable to do anything but watch, Ryan puts all of his focus on dancing, the upcoming championships, and maybe on the owner's really pretty son, Brendon. Even though he doesn't really talk to anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an idea I've been playing with for ages, even before I started writing fic at all. And hey, I can actually do something that isn't Brallon, who'd have thought!
> 
> The title is from the Rihanna song of the same name, obviously.
> 
> If you want a better visualization of the genre Brendon dances, I recommend looking up Oleg Kasynets on YouTube. He is awesome and looks exactly like a friend of mine did 2 years ago.  
> For Ryan's genre, just look up any old Fred Astaire tap-dance clip. Pure gold!

Ryan picks up his bag and starts down the hall, ignoring the slight stinging in his feet after being trapped in narrow shoes for a good two hours. The state championships are coming up, practice has to be intense. He walks past open doors, noticing how every studio is completely empty and free of dancers. Of course, not a lot of people practice untill 10pm, except the ones who have something to achieve. Like Ryan and the group of people he practices with. They’ve left too, as Ryan is always the last one to finish showering and changing - He makes a big deal out of looking good, okay, even if he’s just leaving the place to go home.

He passes the last studio in the hall, stops in his tracks and turns around; The doors are closed, but the distant sound of music is coming from behind them, the beat of the bass drum thumping through the walls. The tickling sense of curiousity makes its way up the back of his neck; Usually, at this time, he would be the only one left, except for the cleaners. It’s not like he has anything interesting or warm and welcoming to come home to, so he actually stays back longer on purpose, even if he is finished fixing his appearance.

Ryan silently takes a few steps forward, putting a hand on the door handle. He stays there for a minute, leaning against the door to try and listen to the music coming from the other side. He vaguely recognizes the tune as something he’s heard on the radio at some point, not something he’d categorize as his taste, but definitely something you could dance to. Which, he supposes, is the point of it playing in a dance studio.  
He sucks in a breath and presses down on the handle, slowly pushing the door open a few inches and peering in.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees the single figure moving around on the floor in front of the wall of mirrors. It’s a boy with fluffly, dark-brown hair, creamy skin, his hips, arms and legs swinging and moving around in perfect time with each other and the loud music playing on the speakers. His eyes are closed, and the dance moves seem to simply happen. It doesn’t look like he’s been studying them down to every last detail, like Ryan has to do with his. They look natural.  
Considering who it is, Ryan is fairly certain the dancing really is completely natural.  
The boy’s name is Brendon Urie, and Ryan knows that because Brendon’s mother owns Summerlin Centre Of Modern Dance (Or SCMD, for short), and because Brendon is pretty much the best jazz-funk dancer in the state. And he is so fucking beautiful, especially when he seems to let go of the outside world and simply dance, Ryan usually doesn’t risk even looking at him, scared of accidentally starting to drool or something equally embarrassing. He’s never even talked to him, only watched him from afar when they happened to be at the studio at the same time. Which, as far as Ryan can tell, is pretty much everytime Ryan is there - He sometimes has the impression that Brendon lives at the studio.

The music comes to a stop, Ryan not even realizing how long he’s been standing in the door, watching Brendon dance his heart out.  
Brendon stops, breathes, and opens his eyes - Immediately catching Ryan’s gaze in the mirror. Ryan startles, panics and slams the door, turning to run towards the frontdoors.

_Fuck._

 

“Ryan, you’re not keeping up! Come on!”  
Sometimes, Ryan wonders why on earth he ever started tap dancing. He barely remembers not doing it, but it’s still hard. _Really_ hard, and his instructor makes a point of telling him when he messes up the rhythm. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed that he was out of it _before_ Mr. Wentz-seriously-just-call-me-Pete shouted it at him.  
Ryan blows his bangs out of his eyes and stops to get a feel for the beat again. The problem with the music usually used for tap dancing is that, with all the trumpets and quick pianos, it can be pretty hard to find the damn rhythm.  
It does require a certain amount of talent, and Ryan has no problem with admitting that he is pretty proud of having that talent, and so, he can’t really help the smirk that appears on his lips, when he feels the beat again, and jumps right back into the routine they were in the middle of.

 

The first thing Ryan hears when he opens the frontdoor to his house is a crash, his father yelling something angry and incoherable and his mother apologizing for something she most likely didn’t do. His hand tightens on the doorknob. He knows he should step in, say something, do something, but he also knows that if he does, he’s going to end up with bruises as well. He’s seen and experienced the scenario way too many times to not know how it’s going to end; His father gets drunk and violent, his mother takes the hits and the shouting, unless Ryan steps in - Then he’s the one his father takes a swing at.

He wants to. He wants to protect his mom, of course he does. But she has told him, each time he’s done it, not to. “I can take care of myself, honey,” she tells him, with her cheek swollen and blue, every time this happens. It’s been happening more and more often in the past few months, Ryan has noticed, but his mom still tells him not to interfere and instead just leave the house or stay in his room untill his dad has cooled off.  
Ryan turns on his heel, slamming the door to let them know he was here, and runs back to his car.

 

Ryan contemplates going to a friend’s house. He knows Spencer and Jon always lets him stay with them, but he also knows that on a Saturday afternoon, they’re most likely going to be with their girlfriends, and not wanting to be disturbed.  
So he turns right, and drives the way he knows best - Right back to SCMD.

 

The foyer is mostly empty when Ryan slips in through the glass doors. Only Grace Urie, the owner, is standing behind the counter, looking at something on the computer. He walks up to her and clears his throat. She looks up, and a smile spreads on her face. Ryan has been going to this centre ever since he started dancing, and he always liked Grace. She always gave him and his partner a cookie or a popsicle when they were small and still did standard.

“Ryan! How are you, honey?” Grace asks, her voice light and attentive, as always.  
Ryan forces a smile, wills his voice and hands not to shake, and says,  
“Is, Is Mr. Wentz still here?”  
Grace nods and turns to someone who’s, apparently, sitting on the floor behind the counter.  
“Brendon, darling, go get Pete, would you?”  
Ryan freezes. _Shit_.  
There’s the sound of a sigh and a book closing, then Brendon appears next to his mother, not looking at Ryan.  
“Sure, mom.” he says, and walks off to the backroom.

Pete appears a minute or two later, Brendon trailing behind him. Pete takes one look at Ryan, sighs, and waves Ryan towards him. Ryan shoves his hands in his pockets and walks around the corner, keeping his head down. When he walks past Brendon though, he can’t help but glance up. He can’t tell if Brendon recognizes him or not, but he guesses Brendon can, because he pointedly looks away and goes back to sitting on the floor, picking up his book.  
Pete puts his arm around Ryan’s shoulders and steers him to sit on a couch in the backroom, which is empty, thank god.

Ryan started in Pete’s class when he was eight years old. His father’s abusive tendencies started when he was ten, and Pete noticed that Ryan’s concentration was failing. He called him out on it, but Ryan refused to tell anything. His mother had asked him not to tell anyone, so he wouldn’t. When he showed up to class with a bruised cheek, Pete held hiim back after class and refused to let him go before he’d told what was going on. So Ryan told him what was going on, how his father had started drinking out of nowhere, how he hit Ryan’s mom, and how he would hit Ryan as well if he tried to do something about it. Ryan was young and didn’t understand what had happened to his dad, and the tears were streaming down his cheeks while he told the story. After, Pete hugged him for a long time, and told Ryan to call him or come to him if he ever needed to get out of the house.  
It had happened more than once or twice in the past seven or so years, that Ryan had called Pete, crying and trying his best not to hear the sounds from downstairs. Pete would always tell Ryan to pack a couple of essentials, get out of the house as quietly as possible, and wait for him at the end of the street.

Pete keeps his arm around Ryan’s shoulders while he digs out his phone from his pocket, pushes a few buttons and presses it to his ear.  
“Hey, can you pick up Ryan from the centre? I’m not off for another two hours..”  
Ryan draws a shaky breath and hopes that Patrick, Pete’s boyfriend since before Ryan knew them, has time to come get him. He knows it’s weird, but Pete and Patrick has been his extra set of parents since he was ten. His mother knows of them but hasn’t ever met them - Mostly because Pete probably wouldn’t be able to keep himself from having a go at her if he did meet her. Ryan knows what Pete, and Patrick for that matter, thinks of his parents. He knows that Pete wants to contact the police, wants to get his mother out of that house, wants to get his father into some sort of rehab, but everytime Ryan has mentioned anything like that to his mother, she has told him not to, and that if he did, she would kick him out anyway. He’s not sure why she won’t go to the police, or at least get some kind of help, but she just doesn’t.  
“Patrick’ll be here in like, fifteen minutes,” Pete says and squeezes his shoulder. Ryan nods and curls into Pete a little; Pete brings up his other arm, and hugs Ryan to him, rocking the boy from side to side.

He can feel eyes on the back of his neck when he walks out of the backroom and out of the frontdoor, but doesn’t turn around to check who it is, or rather, if it is who he thinks.

 

Patrick is more or less Ryan’s favorite person ever. He teaches music at a local high school - sadly not the one Ryan goes to - makes an awesome veggi-lasagna and always talks in a calm, soothing voice that never fails to make Ryan stop shaking after having seen his parents in yet another fight.  
He makes Ryan sit down at the kitchen table, and places a mug in front of him with a tea-bag in, before going over to click on the electric keddle. Coffee is Ryan’s preferred choice, but after years of doing this, he knows that Patrick refuses to give him anything that contains caffeine when he’s like this - Hands shaking, lower lip trembling, shoulders hunched.

“So,” Patrick says and sits down in front of him with his own mug “Championships are coming up, eh?”  
Ryan smiles into his cup; This is probably his favorite thing about Patrick. He never makes him talk about what happened or tries to make him go to the police. He just talks about something else, something that takes Ryan’s mind completely off of all the things he doesn’t want to think about.  
“Yeah.”  
“Are you excited?” Patrick leans back in his chair and looks up at Ryan over his boxy glasses.  
“A little,” Ryan bites his lip “Mostly nervous, really.”  
Patrick cracks a small, lopsided smile, “It’s your first time doing solo, right?”  
Ryan nods. After the championship last year, Pete had asked him if he wanted to do solo next year. Pete is convinced that Ryan would be much better solo; The group limits him and his talent, Pete had said, pride flashing in his dark-brown eyes. Ryan hadn’t even really considered it, just said yes straight away. Practice became a lot harder and a lot more frequent, but Pete had this special ability to motivate his students and make them want to practice. Ryan doesn’t remember ever not wanting to practice; To him, there is nothing better than when everything’s flowing, when he doesn’t have to think, when he simply lets his feet and ankles take over, heel-toe-heel-heel-toe-toe, whatever, the clicking sound of tap-shoes is his favorite sound, and the way the tapping is a form of music in itself - He doesn’t think he could ever do another genre of dance again.

Patrick hums something under his breath and watches Ryan for a minute.  
“You’re going to do great. Pete tells me you’ve never been better.”  
Ryan ducks his head and feels a light blush rise to his cheeks, but he is smiling. He never really knew how to handle compliments, but then again, who does?  
Patrick goes on asking about more dance-stuff, then about school, and by the time Pete walks in the door and gives his boyfriend a wet-sounding kiss, that makes Patrick blush and fidget a little, Ryan has forgotten all about fighting, bruises and downcast eyes.  
Pete says, “What’s for dinner, honey?”, Patrick sends him an impressive glare that makes Pete laugh loud and clear, and Ryan catches himself thinking, _I wish they were my parents_.

 

It’s a week later, 10pm and after practice, that Ryan walks by one of the supposed-to-be-empty studios and hears music coming from inside. This time, he has an idea of who might be inside, and he knows he should just keep walking, should ignore it and not risk the embarrasment of being caught staring _again_ , but his body seems to disagree with this logic. He silently, slowly, moves towards the door, pauses for a second before pressing the handle down, and peering in through the two-three inches between door and doorframe.

It is Brendon, just like he expected. He’s moving around the floor in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, eyes closed. The chorus of the song sets in, and Ryan freezes, blushes. This song he certainly does recognize, anyone would.

It’s that Rihanna song that was played constantly on the radio a couple of years ago; That one where the chorus goes,  
 _“'Cause I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it_  
 _Sex in the air, I don't care, I love the smell of it_  
 _Sticks and stones may break my bones_  
 _But chains and whips excite me”_

He tries to notice what Brendon is actually _doing_. The last time, he was just moving around in what Ryan supposes are basic jazz-funk steps. This time, there’s a lot more squatting and hands running down his torso going on. The last time, he was wearing a sweatshirt and simple jeans. This time, it’s tight jeans and a loose tank-top that shows off the muscles of Brendon’s shoulders and arms, and that sometimes will be pulled up a little, showing off the flexing muscles of his stomach.

Ryan closes the door, maybe a little harder than he should have, fuck, it probably made noise. He hurries down the hall, hoping that it’s still raining outside like it was when he came, because he sort of needs a cold shower right now, thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not that Ryan didn’t notice Brendon before, because he definitely did. Just, not as often as he does now. Brendon seems to be everywhere. At least, everywhere at the centre - Ryan’s never seen him outside the centre, actually. It seems that everytime Ryan arrives in the foyer, Brendon’s sitting in one of the couches, leaning against a wall, or standing next to his mom behind the counter, helping her with something. Everytime Ryan leaves in the afternoon, he either walks past Brendon in the hallway, or in the foyer, again. Everytime Ryan leaves late in the evening, he watches Brendon dance, alone, in one of the empty studios. Ryan makes sure that he never gets caught. He can’t really know for sure if Brendon really keeps his eyes closed throughout the whole routine he does, but Ryan chooses to count on it.

The funny thing is, Brendon never says a word. The entire time Ryan has “known” him, he’s only heard Brendon say a few, short sentences, usually to his mother. He barely even acknowledges Ryan when they pass each other, which makes Ryan feel quite uneasy, and leads him to suspect that Brendon might know that Ryan totally creeps on him every second night. But Brendon dosen’t call him out on it or say anything, so Ryan chooses to assume that he doesn’t know. Mostly because he doesn’t want to stop watching Brendon dance. There’s something enchanting about the way Brendon moves when he dances. It looks so utterly natural, like it’s just something that happens as soon as music is put on. He always has his eyes closed, like he retreats into his own little world. Ryan thinks he probably does. He tends to do it himself.

 

It’s one of those nights that Ryan spends at Patrick and Pete’s house, and he’s sitting at the dining table, doing homework. Patrick is on the opposite side of the table, grading papers. Ryan finishes a sentence in his biology notes, and starts to watch Patrick work, as a sort of break from his own books and papers. He reads the names on each paper upside-down. None of them is recognizable to him. Not untill one of them clearly states, _Brendon Urie_.

Ryan blinks.  
“Uhm,”  
Patrick looks up, raising an eyebrow.  
“Do you. Uh, is one of your students named Brendon?” he points vaguely at the paper in front of Patrick.  
“Yeah.” Patrick replies, smiling.  
“Oh.” Ryan says lamely.  
“He dances at the centre, right?” Patrick continues, going back to the paper.  
“Yeah, yeah he does.”  
Patrick nods.  
“He a friend of yours?”  
Ryan fidgets in his seat a little and hestitates to answer, which makes Patrick glance up at him.  
“Not really.”  
Patrick just nods once, and Ryan picks his pen back up.

 

It’s raining, pouring down actually, when Ryan all but runs out of the frontdoor, messenger bag slung over his shoulder and tears prickling behind his eyelids. He can still hear his dad yelling as he gets into his car and fumbles to get the key into the ignition. He barely has to think as he makes his way to Pete and Patrick’s house.

Despite how many times he’s been there, he still knocks. Patrick looks confused for a couple of seconds when he opens the door, then sad when his eyes focus on Ryan’s shaking, wet form.  
“Come in, Ry.” he sighs.

Ryan stands in the middle of the hallway, shaking and dripping wet from rain. He can feel warm, salty tears stream down his cheeks, and knows that he’s unable to stop them.  
“Did you bring some clothes?” Patrick asks, his eyes soft and his expression edged with concern. Ryan nods shakily.  
“Good, alright, go change, yeah?”  
Ryan nods again, but keeps standing there, until Patrick walks over to him and wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan presses his face against Patrick’s shoulder and lets himself cry. Patrick holds him tight, rocks him from side to side and whispers reassuring words to him.

Ryan starts up the stairs, wiping at his nose and eyes.  
He doesn’t notice the dark-haired boy sitting at the dining table, books spread out in front of him, and he doesn’t hear Patrick sigh and say, “Sorry about that.”

 

When Ryan comes back down the stairs and walks into the kitchen, still wiping at his nose a little, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees none other than Brendon Urie sitting at the table, head bent over a notebook, pen scribbling. He’s nodding to something Patrick’s saying, but Ryan can’t really hear what it is because his mind is spinning with questions and confusion. He blinks and swallows, and realizes that Brendon is one of Patrick’s students, and Patrick is a reading tutor at the school he works at, besides being a music teacher, which means that he sometimes has students over that struggles with reading and writing, usually due to dyslexia.

Ryan frowns to himself at that, because even though he doesn’t know Brendon very well, if at all, he didn’t expect _that_. That’s when Patrick looks up at him, and his gaze softens. “Come sit, Ryan.” he says, and pulls out the chair next to him. Ryan walks over stiffly and sits, trying not to stare at Brendon. Patrick asks if he’s feeling better, and leaves him be after getting a nod for an answer, going back to Brendon.  
Ryan looks back at him as well, and feels even more confused when he sees that Brendon is blushing bright red and that his fingers have tightened around his pen.

After sitting in for half an hour, listening to Patrick trying to help Brendon spell and watching the scarlet color of Brendon’s cheeks growing deeper and deeper, Ryan has figured out that Brendon is definitely dyslexic. It’s a pretty bad case too, because Ryan can see the sentences Brendon’s writing from where he’s sitting, and the only reason he can read them is that he hears Patrick saying them out loud - Brendon doesn’t say a word. They’re a mess of letters, only vaguely resembling the actual words, and Ryan feels bad for him.

When Brendon packs up his things and leaves, with a quiet “Bye” to Patrick and a non-telling nod to Ryan, Ryan sits back in his chair and looks up at Patrick when he comes back into the kitchen after letting Brendon out. “He’s dyslexic, right?” Ryan asks, as if to make sure of what he already knows. Patrick nods. “Pretty badly, yeah.” he says, and starts to pull out pots and pans to start making dinner, “It was discovered way too late, so now, at seventeen, he can barely write at all.” “Oh.” Ryan mumbles and frowns at the table. “Pete’ll be home in an hour, come help me with dinner.”

 

It’s a few days later when Brendon suddenly comes up to Ryan at the centre. Ryan just finished practice and has his bag slung over his shoulder, heading for the exit, hoping that he’ll be able to make it home and do his homework before he falls asleep from exhaustion; The annual championships are coming up in a few months, and practice is getting increasingly intense, and sometimes, balancing school and practice can be a challenge. Ryan is completely wrapped up in his own thoughts, and jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He spins around and looks right into Brendon’s slightly sheepish expression. “Hi.” Brendon says. “Uh.” Ryan replies. There’s a stretch of silence where Ryan tries to figure out why Brendon stopped him, and why he has to be so gorgeous doing it. “So uhm. You live with mr. Stump?” Brendon asks, then flushes bright red. Ryan blinks and shakes his head a little. “I, uhm. No, I just - I just come to his house, when I don’t want to be at home.” he hopes to god that Brendon won’t ask why he occasionally doesn’t want to be at home. “Oh.” Brendon nods. Ryan thinks he looks way too cute when he’s blushing as much as he is right now. “Did - Was there anything else?” Brendon looks like he’d love to dig a hole and hide in it, but he looks up at Ryan and shrugs awkwardly. “Did you, maybe - Want to hang out?”  
Ryan blinks again; It’s like he’s getting more confused by the minute. “Now?”  
Brendon nods. “Uh.” Ryan thinks about his homework, school, duties, bad grades, and all the reasons he should get home, like, now. Then he thinks about how much he’s thought about Brendon in the past months. “Okay.”

Brendon leads him up and into one of the empty dancing studios - in fact, the one Ryan always creeps on him through the doors of - and sits down on the edge of the small stage, swinging his legs back and forth. Ryan sits down next to him, with some distance between them. There are long, painfully awkward moments of silence before Brendon clears his throat and asks, “What genre do you dance?”  
“Tapdance.” Ryan replies.  
And then, some kind of magic happens, because Brendon stops blushing and starts talking excitedly at a mile a minute. Ryan would be confused - and endeared, by Brendon’s rather childish excitement - if he wasn’t so busy talking just as fast and just as excitedly. About dance, techniques, genres, goods and bads, championships, injuries, then about music, then movies and tv shows, then books, and then school, which makes Brendon go quiet. Ryan gather up the courage and says, “School’s pretty hard on you, huh?” Brendon nods, staring at his knees, and starts blushing again. “Mr. Stump’s helped me a lot this year.” he says quietly.  
“Patrick’s pretty great, yeah.”  
Brendon nods again, and there’s another long stretch of silence, until Brendon asks if Ryan wants to hear this awesome, old 80’s track he found, and see the choreography he came up with to it, and Ryan obviously can’t say no to that.

When he goes to bed that night, Ryan has a smile on his face and a light feeling in his body that he doesn’t remember having had ever before, despite the fact that his homework is only half done. He thinks about how he and Brendon agreed to hang out again tomorrow, and it makes him giggle and bite his pillow. He feels a little stupid, but doesn’t really care, and falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait!


End file.
